


Everything Hits At Once

by bitterowl, hackerhostel (watchmefuckthisplace)



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7706506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterowl/pseuds/bitterowl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchmefuckthisplace/pseuds/hackerhostel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard wishes he could still be angry, angry instead of scared and pathetic like he feels now. His words come easier when he’s angry. But all that passion has been drained away from him today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Richard

**11:36 p.m., Sunday.**

Richard steps outside, cautiously glancing around, triple checking behind himself.

His nerves are a writhing bundle inside his stomach, and the paranoia isn’t easy to quash. He knows full well the others are back inside, far too preoccupied with themselves to bother paying any attention to him right now. As if they’d even want to anyway -- his housemates have been doing a damn good job at deliberately ignoring him all day.

Still, the last thing he needs right now is an audience, and he knows no matter how much they might deny it, they all fucking love eavesdropping.

Richard shuts the door slowly behind himself, almost as a second thought, trying not to be startling, but the steady motion elicits a faint squeak before it clicks and thuds shut. He winces.

The damned door has given him away and it makes him feel exposed. At least it’s dark out here. Somehow, the warm night air feels safer, gives him some small shred of confidence -- what little good it would do.

Erlich is turned away from him still, sitting sprawled back on his elbows at the poolside, ankle deep in the cool cyan glow of the water that’s illuminating him in a strange, alien way. The warm yellow lights fading out from the windows aren’t enough to offer any help. It’s an uneasy atmosphere, now somehow more unusual than ever, as if he hasn’t been back here all hours of the night countless times.

But the world had tipped into a weird foggy sort of place since this afternoon. Everything is tinged with a kind of unreality, like staring distantly out of icy glass, far away and cold, despite the humid mid-summer air.

Erlich at least gives him the courtesy of pretending not to notice him yet. It helps Richard regain some footing, though it doesn’t count for much because his hands are still trembling. He tries shoving them into his pockets, but that just makes his bones feel even more like jelly somehow. Awkwardly he shifts around his limbs, compromising with wrapping his arms tightly around himself.

He sways back and forth a few times to steady himself, searching for whatever words he’s going to need.

“Hey,” Richard says, finally, and it’s a weak creaking sort of noise.

It’s all that wants to come out despite a million colorful thoughts swirling around riotously inside his head. Maybe it will be enough, though, enough to get Erlich talking to him again. Erlich is easy like that.

But a long, painful moment passes and all he hears is the whir of the pool filter and the faint drifting pulse of Gilfoyle’s stereo from inside.

Richard wishes he could still be angry, angry instead of scared and pathetic like he feels now. His words come easier when he’s angry. But all that passion has been drained away from him today.

Instead, he lets out a heavy, shaky sigh.

Erlich glances over at him then, barely even an acknowledgment. He says nothing, but shifts to grab a white-labeled glass-green bottle of liquor resting beside him, going in for a long, easy swig.

 _Jager,_ Richard realizes by the cloying licorice-spice scent drifting up into the air. It makes the bile rise in Richard’s throat. He had never liked the stuff much to begin with, it was like drinking cough syrup, and since getting way too fucked up on Jagerbombs at the party the other night …  if Erlich’s cold gaze wasn’t enough to turn his stomach, this definitely was.

Richard’s head is suddenly swimming and he can feel the churning, it’s hitting him like a punch to the gut and he tries to turn, to run inside, to do something, but the dizzying feeling overwhelms him and then, in an instant, something unfurls deep in the pit of his stomach.

Things go black for a second and he’s stumbling to the ground, a raw burning in his throat and a sour taste in his mouth.

“Jesus Christ Richard!” Erlich shouts, still scrambling away, heaving himself up from the concrete, splashing water all around. “At least fucking warn me, will you?”

Only after it’s done with does he realize he’s vomited right into the pool, at Erlich’s feet.

Richard feels too sick and dizzy to be properly embarrassed, but he knows it will hit him in a minute or two, and the dread doesn’t do him any favors in this state.

He rocks gently back and forth of the edge of the pool, palms digging painfully against the hard, sharp concrete. Richard tries to open his eyes, but the lights dancing on the watery surface are too much and he squeezes them shut again, fighting back another wave of nausea that feels like it’s threatening to expel his organs.

He scrapes his fingertips roughly against the concrete, digging his palms in further against the sharp grit, the sting of it somewhat distracting enough to keep down the sickness.

Then, there’s a heavy sigh above him, and a large hand finds Richard’s shoulder, steadying him and moving in weak, unsure circles along his back.

Richard lets out a defeated groan. Erlich, for better or worse, pulls away.

Sucking in a few breaths, Richard tries to spit out the rest of the bitter acid taste in his mouth. He then falls backwards onto the ground, laying there askew, arm thrown over his eyes to shut out the world.

If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll black out. So much for composure.

“Sorry,” Richard mutters, defeated.

“Whatever. Just clean the pool out by the morning, would you?”

“No, I mean, yeah, sure, but no. I’m _sorry_.” Richard sighs and struggles to pull himself upright, forcing himself to face Erlich. “About earlier, I mean.”

Erlich stares at him intently, then nods slowly before breaking the gaze.

“Yeah, alright, me too,” Erlich says, quietly. He reaches for the bottle of Jager again, but then by some grace thinks better of it and pushes it away instead. Richard was thankful for that at least.

“I guess, _maybe_ , I was being kind of a dick,” Richard admits.

“You think?” Erlich says, and the words are dripping with bitter sarcasm. It stings.

Richard suppresses what he knows would be a pitiful, exhausted groan, and instead lets out a strained sort of whine. It’s even more pathetic than the alternative, he realizes, dragging his hands down his face.  

“Okay, I was a complete dick about it.” Richard finally concedes with a heavy sigh, and he rather be doing a thousand other things right now, but his guilt is swallowing him and he knows he owes the apology to Erlich.

Erlich clears his throat.

“Well thanks for your consideration, but let’s just agree to move past it, alright? Look, if you want to leave, then fine, I’m not going to stop you, but if you want to stay, that’s fine too. As long as it doesn’t compromise the company, I’m willing to forget it ever happened, if you are.”

Erlich’s response is bitter, but it has a kind of steady confidence and grace, devoid of eye-contact, and Richard feels _so small_.

“Cool,” Richard replies feebly, nodding, feeling like a complete and utter tool. He runs a hand down his face again and then looks back over to Erlich, pleading for him to just understand what he _wants_ to say so he doesn’t have to _actually_ say it.

The silence grows vast and uncomfortable, stretching out around them like a million invisible strings, tugging at every thought and feeling that was worming itself through Richard’s entire being.

Something was going to snap soon.

“Erlich?” Richard asks, unable to stand the tension any longer. He’s amazed he’s even found his voice and worries at his lip, trying to ward off the creeping nerves. He wants Erlich to finish the thought for him, but he knows he’s on his own with this. He steels himself.

“You uh. You weren’t … You weren’t wrong.”

The admission hangs there in the sticky air. Erlich is silent.

He refuses to meet Richard’s gaze now, and it crushes him, causing something he didn’t even know was there to shrivel up painfully deep inside his core. The night heat is swallowing him.

Richard figures he’s made some grave miscalculation somewhere and he tries desperately to sort through all the scattered pieces of what had happened, what he had done wrong, what the next move should be … he was lost in a sea of hazy memories and vague half-emotions, not knowing which shards fit together.

It had been Dinesh’s birthday.

In an overzealous display of newfound self-importance over the video chat, not to mention having been awarded a whole chunk of his back pay just a week out of the occasion, Dinesh had thrown an unnecessarily expensive party.

Unsurprisingly, almost none of his invites had shown up, except for Wajeed and his girlfriend, though only briefly, and of course, Pied Piper. However, Gilfoyle took it upon himself to have invited a whole bunch of newly-acquired _friends_ just for the sake of the occasion, wanting to rub it in Dinesh’s face how not even anyone at his own damned birthday party even knew who the hell he was.

Things got heated. People got angry. Richard got painfully embarrassed in the crossfire.

 

Jagerbombs, Richard’s stomach twists up again at the thought, were not a good decision to aid in that situation, however much they may or may not have succeeded at calming his crackling nerves.  

He hadn’t realized how drunk he had gotten. And quickly, too.

Richard had thrown back three in an hour, and after retching into the bathroom sink, threw back two more, which would have easily been another three (or more), had Erlich not intervened.

Richard had then proceeded to make some kind of uncomfortable profession of his love and appreciation to everyone in the bar, even the strangers Gilfoyle had brought, and most embarrassingly of all, to Jared.

In the heat of the moment, irrationally aggravated with Erlich for trying to take the drinks away from him and get him to calm down, he had professed quite the opposite about a certain Mr. Bachman, giving a very harsh and surprisingly eloquent speech for one so smashed.

Erlich, quite unsurprisingly, did not take it very well at all.

Richard had been unnecessarily cruel. He may have _mostly_ spoken the truth, but still, hadn’t really meant half of it. Worst of all it was to a room full of not only co-workers -- but strangers. Erlich Bachman may have had a lot coming to him for a _number_ of reasons, but that much he didn’t deserve.

Richard was painfully ashamed over it the next day.

While he barely remembered the details, which would have been lucky for him, Dinesh had, out of quite a lot of spite, recorded Richard’s whole fucking drunken mess of a speech.   

Watching the playback of it absolutely mortified Richard. Why had anyone ever let him drink at all? When had it ever ended well for anyone involved? _How was this not the first time something like this even happened to him?_ Erlich should have slapped the _first_ drink out of his hand, rather than the sixth.

The details of the waning evening eluded Richard and had thankfully gone unrecorded, but he still remembers bits and pieces, mostly in the form of a screaming contest between him and Erlich.

And well.

There was the kissing.

He hopes to god it wasn’t anything more than that.

The silence stretches on, being pulled too thin, and Richard feels something snap inside of him again.

“Okay, look, I’m apologizing, the least you could do is, uh, acknowledge that maybe? Or tell me to go fuck myself. I don’t care anymore, okay? Just … Just give me something!” Richard’s near babbling, his thoughts scattered and his pulse racing.

“Give you something?” Erlich spits out with a hard-edged laugh, all humor drained from it. “What the hell else do you want from me, Richard? Huh? Do you even realize how much I’ve given you already? Do you realize how many _sacrifices_ I’ve had to make for you? Don’t make me look like a fool again Richard, don’t.”

He says it with such _gravitas_ that Richard can’t help but scoff at him, wide-eyed and incredulous.

“Sacrifices?” Richard barks at him, running his hands erratically through already disheveled hair, tugging a little too hard. “What the _fuck_ Erlich? You do, uh, a pretty good fucking job of making _yourself_ into a _class act_ fool, you know th--”

“Richard, just fucking shut up,” Erlich says. He sounds more tired than he does angry.

“I don’t have to do anything!” Richard is fully keyed up now. His head is absolutely _swimming_ and there’s a part of him that realizes he’s looking for another fight.

God fucking knows why he has to be like this. He’s painfully aware that he’s making things worse but it’s like his nerves are all inertia and there’s no resistance. He can’t stop frantically barreling down the metaphorical hill even if he wanted to.

He turns to march back inside, but then something grips him and he wheels back around before he’s half-way, and the words spill out of him: “You know, you can’t just _make me_ do what you want, because you _think_ you know better, okay, let me tell you some--”

“Richard, sit the fuck down.” Erlich grabs his sleeve then, before he can storm off, and pulls him, stumbling, back down next to him.

With that, something finally clicks into place, stops spinning inside of him.

Strangely, in only an instant, it’s all like all the energy drains out of him. Richard, maybe out of guilt, maybe out of exhaustion, stays put. He wraps his arms tightly around himself, trying to hold himself together. Most of the thoughts have ceased ricocheting inside his head now.  

He gnaws at his lip, looking over expectantly at Erlich, wondering what was coming next.

Erlich’s just staring at him, almost like he’s sizing him up, trying to bore into his mind and figure out what the hell is going on in there. Richard hopes Erlich will let him know if he figures it out because Richard sure as shit doesn’t anymore. He’s suddenly _very tired._

 _Maybe he’s going to hit me._ Richard thinks. Yet still, he stays put. He’d probably deserve it, anyway. Hell, Richard might just be looking forward to it, in this strange, calm, unraveled state he’s in.

Instead, Erlich just grabs him over by the collar of his shirt and kisses him square on the mouth.

Erlich tastes like weed and Jager and he’s pretty sure he still smells _terrible_ himself. All of that mingled together uncaps something inside of him and he pulls away, gagging.

One dizzying heave later, more vomit had found its way into the pool.

Richard lets out a defeated, wavering groan, burying his face in his hands. He’d like nothing better than to dissolve right now.

Despite that, Richard thinks, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He’s more repulsed by himself than Erlich. Something is deeply fractured inside of his brain, he’s sure of it.  

“You deserve that,” Erlich says, smug. He’s smiling at Richard now, warm and vaguely disgusted. “Gross.”

“The fuck…” Richard groans out, clutching at his sides.

He feels like something is wrenching him apart half-heartedly from the inside out, a dull tearing in his gut. But there’s a lingering, foreign sensation that’s more than just the aftershock of puking up his guts. It takes him a moment to identify it, but when he does it surprises him: _He wants Elrich to do that again._

Instead, Erlich just gets up, leaving Richard with a pat on the back before he wanders inside.

Richard is too dazed to follow. He just sits there in the dark for a while, trying to half-heartedly process what had just happened, but his mind’s gone into a near complete shutdown.

By the time he manages to bring himself to go back inside, Erlich is nowhere to be found.


	2. Erlich

**10:17 p.m., two days ago.**

"Erlich, not to be a bother, but can I speak to you for a moment?"

Erlich is chatting up one of Gilfoyle's fake friends when Jared slinks over, wringing his hands, all urgency and anxiety and fretful care as he tugs gently and hesitantly at Erlich's sleeve. It takes all of Erlich's self-control to not slap him away, but he promised himself awhile back that he wouldn't hit Jared so long as he didn't deserve it. Judging by the worry in his sunken eyes and pinched face, it doesn't seem like today will be the day when he finally backhands him.

Sighing and rolling his eyes, he gives the woman—a short, pretty-but-plain brunette who is maybe only a couple of points off his usual sober standard, appearance-wise—an apologetic look.  He imagines, though, that he must look important if Jared is so afraid to talk to him. Regardless of that, he can't help but be irritated, given that he'd only just managed to salvage a moderately enjoyable evening out of the slow-motion car crash of Dinesh's birthday party.

"Sorry, I'll be right back," he says to her, flashing a charming, crooked grin.

She mumbles something about it being fine, then, much to Erlich's chagrin, looks up at Jared with a bright smile. "Hi, Jared."

Jared gives her a nervous but sincere smile. "Charlene," he says with polite affection. "I hope you're having a good time."

Charlene lets out a quiet giggle and Erlich's buzz falls flat. Of course, she's one of the many fuck-buddies Dinesh let Jared invite to his party. The place is teeming with them.

Erlich grits his teeth, gives her one last strained smile, and lets Jared lead him away.

"It's Richard," Jared begins almost immediately, speaking in hushed tones.

Erlich's stomach drops at the mention of his name, wondering what fresh new hell this depression-pit of a gathering is going to reveal. "What about him?"

"I don't know if I'm overstepping my boundaries, or if I'm imposing, but somebody needs to do something," Jared says, a picture of distress. "He's already thrown up twice and he's still drinking. I have to admit, I don't have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, but—"

"Richard's a big boy, he can take care of himself," Erlich says, but already finds himself scanning the room to find him. He spots him over by the far end of the bar, tipping back a glass into his mouth, nearly tumbling over in the process. Erlich cringes. He's definitely the drunkest one here. "Jesus christ. Did you try talking to him?"

"Well, you know how..." Jared pauses, choosing his words carefully, " _willful_ he can be."

Erlich does. He drags a hand down his face. "Goddamnit, Richard," he mutters. In a few quick strides, he crosses the room, reaching out to put a hand on Richard's back to steady him just as he looks like he's going to fall over sideways.

"Fuck, hey," Richard slurs, his hot breath reeking of Jagermeister and the sickly-sour scent of Red Bull. It makes Erlich's stomach turn a little. "Jus' the asshole I wan—anted to talk to!"

"Yeah, same here, buddy," Erlich says in a condescendingly loud way, putting an arm around his narrow, swaying shoulders. _Why the fuck didn't Jared come to get me sooner?_ he asks himself but then remembers ignoring a half-heard question Jared asked him right around the time Dinesh was having his first hissy fit at Gilfoyle. Shit, did everybody in this goddamn company need a babysitter?

"This is a fucking horrible party," Richard says, leaning into him with all his insubstantial weight. "I hate parties! Have you ever had a Jagerbomb? They're fucking gross, but like, man, they're just—"

"Go get him some water," Erlich says to Jared, who takes one last look at Richard before nodding dutifully and darting off to find the one despondent bartender tasked with supplying alcohol to this sorry crowd.

When Richard stops mid-sentence to tip the last of his drink into his mouth, Erlich plucks the glass from his hand, eliciting an irritated whine. "No, that's—I was drinking that. _Erlich_."

"Jesus, Richard, get a hold of yourself." Erlich can't help but laugh as Richard reaches out a hand to grab impotently at his hijacked Jagerbomb. "Jared's getting you a new drink. Why are you drinking this, anyway? It's frat-boy garbage."

"Yeah, like you're _so-o-o_ fuckin' tasteful 'n shit," Richard complains, reaching again for his drink, almost knocking it out of Erlich's hand this time. He gives up once Erlich holds it up and away at arm's length, settling into a pout. "Jared lets me drink whatever I want."

"Well, Jared's a fucking pussy," he mumbles, craning his neck to see Jared—sweet, wonderful Jared—hurrying back and cradling a glass of water. "Speaking of."

"I'm sorry I took so long," Jared says in an awkward, keening voice, holding out the glass to Richard. It has a slice of lemon in it. "Here you go, Richard. You're probably getting really dehydrated by now."

"See? Jared loves me." Richard takes a sip, but not before spilling some of it down the front of his shirt. He peers over the rim of the glass at Erlich with a challenging squint.

"I do," Jared agrees mildly.

Erlich rolls his eyes.

"He doesn't take away my drinks and brings me water," Richard babbles into his drink, making a mess of himself. God, he's drunk. "He's so nice, though? Jared, you're so nice. You're so good to me."

Jared frets a bit and squirms under the attention, smiling the saddest damn smile in the world. "Well, I do try."

"Nobody appreciates you enough! Not a damn _anybody_! And—and you know what?" Richard says, wriggling out of Erlich's grip. Before Erlich or Jared know what's happening, he's halfway to the DJ stand.

"Fuck," Erlich spits, realizing what's happening before it's happening. "Mother _fuck_. Richard, _no._ "

But by the time Erlich is within grabbing distance, Richard already has the mic in his hand. "Sorry Mister—uhh—" Richard looks at the DJ's name on the front of his stand. "DJ Phatt Staxx—really? Wow, that name is a grammatical nightmare," he mumbles, distracted momentarily by Dinesh's tasteless choice in entertainment.

Erlich takes the moment to hiss out his name again, but his interruption only reminds Richard of his purpose.

"Anyway, I have an announcement to make!" he says into the microphone, shooting Erlich a defiant sneer that reminds Erlich of a sloppy-drunk gremlin. "Okay, it's not really an announcement but—okay—no, hold on, let me start over again." He pauses for a second. "I want to make a tribute to the best, most _great_ business guy _ever_ , in the _history_ of business boys, Jared fucking Dunn! Wave, Jared, so everybody knows where you are."

Jared, who's since sidled up next to Erlich, gives the room a hesitating wave. Erlich reconsiders his stance on not hitting him.

"Damn it, Jared, don't encourage it," Erlich says under his breath, causing Jared to lower his hand and look distressingly torn between what Richard and Erlich expect out of him.

"Now, Jared's the best, but you know who tells him that? _Nobody_ ," Richard slurs, giving Erlich a disparaging stare. "We'd be nothing without him, just a bunch of dumb, stupid coders who don't know how to do business stuff, and make bad choices, and who—who commit _fraud_ —"

" _RICHARD_ ," Erlich hisses, taking a step forward and reaching for the mic. However, he only grabs air when Richard pivots away from him.

"No, I'm not done," Richard says, slapping Erlich away when he goes for the mic a second time. "See? There's not enough _love_ in the world. That's the problem—right, party people? But you know what? I love Jared Dunn—and—and! You know what else? I love _all_ of _you_! You're great! Well, you're all mostly—mostly weird strangers that Gilfoyle paid to be here, but _I love you_."

"Damnit, Richard, come on," Erlich says, grabbing at a shoulder, but Richard shrugs him off. "You're making a fucking fool of yourself."

"OH! _OH_! Really now!" Richard hoots, turning toward Erlich. " _I'm_ the one making a fool of myself! You're one to talk! You always act like you're _so_ great and _so_ important but you just bully your way into Pied Piper— _MY_ company—and make me do stuff I don't wanna, and—and newsflash! You're _not_ that great!"

Erlich grits his teeth, darting a glance toward the small crowd of strangers that have gathered. " _Richard_."

"No! You're a big, loud, lazy, _stupid_ mess that nobody in the Valley even _likes_! You can't even code! And now you own my company! Now, _Jared_ —"

Before Erlich knows what he's doing, he's knocked the mic out of Richard's hand, feedback screaming over the speakers as he manhandles Richard off the platform.

"I'm not done! Fuck—Erlich, fuck you, don't censor me!" Richard squawks, nearly tripping over his own feet. "I can say what I want, it's a free country!"

"God _damn it_ , shut _up_ ," Erlich snarls, shoving him toward the door, the back of Richard's shirt balled up in a fist.

"Sorry about that," Erlich hears Jared say into the microphone. "I'm just going to give this back to Mr. Staxx."

It takes Erlich longer than he would have hoped to get Richard, who is almost literally kicking and screaming, outside and into the parking lot.

"What—what are you gonna do! Fight me?" Richard says, puffing himself up in a way that, if Erlich weren't furious, would be hysterically funny.

"Mother _fuck_ , Richard, stop being so goddamn difficult," Erlich snaps, crossing his arms. A part of him almost wishes that Richard would throw a punch, just so he could knock him to the ground. Instead, he just says, "Drink your water."

Staring him down, Richard pours the water out onto the asphalt. "Yeah, that's right! Fuck you!"

Erlich can feel his blood almost _literally_ start to boil, but he reminds himself that Richard is drunk, and drunk Richard says a whole lot of shit he doesn't mean. Gritting his teeth, he sucks in a shaky breath. "Great. Real mature."

Richard still hasn't broken off his gaze from Erlich's, blue eyes blazing. "You can't tell me what to do. Un-unless you're gonna try, 'cause, even though you fucked up, the universe still lets you off the fucking hook!" Richard's practically screaming now, his voice raw and ragged, vitriol tumbling out of him like projectile vomit. "I bust my ass, I do everything right, but no! The universe rewards _you_! So I guess you _can_ tell me what to do, considering you basically fucking own me now. Come on, Erlich! _Tell me what to do,_ so I can tell you to _fuck off_!"

Something inside of Erlich snaps.

Taking a step forward, he practically lunges for Richard, but, at the last moment, he stops short. When Richard takes a stumbling, frightened step back—his eyes wide with panic—Erlich almost regrets his display of blind aggression. Instead of feeling bad, though, there's just a sick, gut-wrenching satisfaction at seeing him cower.

"You know who the fuck would own you if I didn't step the fuck in and save your miserable, oblivious ass?" Erlich snarls, angry enough t0 take another step forward when Richard doesn't answer him. "Gavin fucking Belson. That's who. Without me convincing Big Head to help me save our collective asses—not just yours, _everyone's_ —you'd be up shit creek with nothing but your fucking hands to paddle!" Erlich paused to catch his breath, chest heaving, limbs shaking with impotent rage. "So no, Richard. Fuck _you_."

Arms limp at his sides, Richard stares, eyes wide and expressionless. Then, without warning, he starts to cry.

"Jesus christ," Erlich groans, the anger evaporating, lifting off of him like a veil. "Jesus, Richard, come on."

"Oh my god," Richard whimpers, his face contorted in an unstoppable wave of tears. "Oh my god, Erlich, I'm sorry."

"Hey," Erlich says, tentatively reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder, each one of Richard's pathetic sobs twisting like a knife in his chest. "Hey, it's fine, I don't care. Seriously, I don't. It's okay."

It's a lie, and Richard, even for as drunk as he is, seems to realize. "I fucked up. I don't know why I said all that. Oh my god."

Erlich swallows down the lump that's threatening to form in his throat. "Because you're scared that it's true," he says before he can stop himself.

Richard just looks up at him miserably. "I don't want it to be true."

Letting out a nervous laugh, Erlich puts a hand on his curly head. "Well, lucky for you, it's not," he says, burying a hand in Richard's hair. The gesture is far too intimate, but Richard doesn't seem to mind, leaning into his touch, still staring at him with achingly blue eyes.

"You're too good to me," Richard says, sniffling. His cheeks are still damp with tears, flushed and tender-looking. "You're always too good to me."

"Yeah, well." When Erlich replies, his voice is thick. He blames it on the shouting. "We're gonna do it right this time. Promise."

Erlich doesn't move away when Richard takes a step forward. He doesn't move away when Richard closes the space between them, doesn't flinch when Richard slips a hand behind his neck and pulls him down into a long, slow, shuddering kiss. Instead, he just kisses back, taking Richard's wet face in his hands, wanting to lose himself in Richard's panting breath and the slip-slide of his tongue, wanting to revel in the moment as much as he can before it inevitably ends.

As though the universe has read his mind, a sudden, familiar yelp from behind him cuts the moment short. All at once, Richard is pulling away, pushing against Erlich's chest and stumbling back, wet lashes fluttering in a parody of demure surprise, pupils blown in the semi-dark.

Richard's reaction makes a strange, sick feeling well up in Erlich's chest, but he just licks his lips, ignoring the spicy-sickly-sweet of Jaeger on them, and turns around.

"Jared," Erlich says, clearing his throat. "Richard is...very drunk."

"I can come back later," Jared says, gesturing back to the door. He looks desperately uncertain.

Ignoring the gnawing pang of vague, pitying guilt, Erlich wishes he would go away. He almost tells him to, but before he can, Richard is retching behind him, spilling out the contents of his stomach onto the cold asphalt in a thick, sickening splash.

"Jesus christ," Erlich curses, stepping away before any of it gets on his shoes. By the time he looks back at Richard, Jared's already rushed to his side and has a hand on his back, fussing and fretting with devoted benevolence. He watches as Richard gently shrugs off his hand and straightens up, hiccuping and spitting, looking dizzy and miserable.

"Are you all right?" Jared asks. "Do you need to go home?"

Richard only groans in reply, burying his face in his hands. There's vomit on his shirt.

Whether his extreme reaction is from the headrush of being violently ill or from regret, Erlich can't tell, but any hope of salvaging the moment has passed.

He clears his throat again to get Jared's attention. "Take Richard inside and get the poor lad cleaned up," Erlich enunciates, putting on the air of unconcerned authority. Instead of looking at Jared, he focuses his attention on a far-off street lamp. "And you should probably get him home before he can make any other poor, misguided choices with the rest of his night. He's going to have a hell of a hangover to sleep off, and we have work to do tomorrow."

"Of course," Jared says, voice dripping with dutiful concern. "Come on, Richard, let's get you inside."

Erlich is still staring at the street lamp when he hears the door open.  The music swells in the parking lot for a brief moment, only to be muffled once again when it closes. He waits, not moving until the ache in his chest grows stronger, until it threatens to swallow him whole, to devour him and leave nothing behind. When it gets to be too much to bear, he lets out a loud, strangled, " _Fuck_!" and beats impotently at the cool night air, the distant glow of the street lamp still burned into his retinas when he closes his eyes.

" _Fuck_ ," he repeats, quieter this time, his breath coming in shaking, shallow gulps as he lets the panic fade, trying not to think about Richard, about kissing him, about anything. _Breathe_ , he tells himself. It's like he's in college again, young and stupid and trying his damnedest not to think about how terrifying everything could be if you only thought about it long enough.

But, little by little, the panic does fade, and all that's left is a tired, empty feeling, hollow and grimy like an old, ill-cared-for water pipe.

Dragging a hand down his face—rubbing at the stubborn spot of light still dangling in the center of his vision—he considers calling a cab and getting the hell out of here. But that would be admitting defeat. He takes one last long inhale, as deep as he can, then exhales in a loud, sharp _whoosh._

Dusting himself off and checking his shoes once more for the contents of Richard's stomach, he puts a smile on his face and strides up to the door.

The show must go on.

  


* * *

  


**11:59 p.m., Sunday.**

Erlich shuts the door to the pool behind him, a long, frustrated sigh escaping before he can bite it back.

He can still taste the sour-bitter-rotten tang of Richard's disgusting mouth, so without thinking too hard about it, he makes his way toward the cabinet, grabs a glass, fills it with water, and drains the whole thing. He's not nearly drunk enough for this, though the alcohol is still sloshing around in his insides, his limbs heavy with a dull, uncomfortable ache.

Erlich fills the glass again, takes a sip, then dumps the rest, watching it trickle down the drain. Distantly, he notices the sink is empty; Jared must have done the dishes at some point while Erlich was pretending to sleep off his hangover.

_The kiss was supposed to be revenge_ , Erlich thinks suddenly. For what, though, he wasn't sure—for Richard embarrassing him in front of so many people, for screaming at him in the parking lot, for ... for kissing _him_.

Looking out the window, he sees Richard still huddled by the pool, backlit by the eerie glow of the pool light.

He wasn't even sure if Richard remembered kissing him. He had to, right? He's acting weird, weirder than normal, even weirder than he had been after all the times he had hurt Erlich and subsequently apologized. Erlich lets out a bitter laugh. The fact that this is a running theme in their friendship—if you could even call it that—is telling. Of course, things would come to a head. Of course, things would escalate. They would keep escalating until there was nowhere else to go, and apparently kissing was the next stage of this fucking maelstrom of a relationship.

For a long moment, he watches Richard, wondering if he was aware of all the goddamn mixed signals he kept throwing at Erlich, but knowing he couldn't be. Richard was one of the most socially stupid people he'd met in his entire life, but hell if the guy wasn't honest.

Richard doesn't move to come back inside, and after awhile, Erlich gives up—on what, he doesn't know—and turns to leave.

"Hey."

Erlich's head snaps up to see an impassive, bearded nerd staring at him, barely two feet away, standing in the doorway. Anger sizzles through him, and before he can stop himself, he's snapping at Gilfoyle. "Shouldn't you be off jerking it onto a fucking pentagram somewhere?" he says, neither drunk nor high enough to deal with Gilfoyle's stony, accusing gaze.

"Yeah, sure," Gilfoyle deadpans, but he doesn't move out of Erlich's way. "Have you seen Richard? I have a question about the alpha UI design."

"What, about how much it sucks?" Erlich spits. He cringes when Gilfoyle's eyes crinkle almost imperceptibly in a half-smile. Fuck him, fuck his stupid fucking beard, fuck his stupid fucking face. "Well, you're going to have to wait. He's too busy blowing chunks into my goddamn pool."

"Still fucked up over last night?" Gilfoyle asks placidly. The question is just open-ended enough to sound like an accusation.

Erlich glares. "You'll have to ask him. If you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to."

Gilfoyle moves out of the way, but only after staring at Erlich for a second too long, his expressionless face making Erlich's insides turn to molten lead. It probably isn't the best idea, but as he passes the bar on the way to his bedroom—pointedly ignoring everyone in the room—he reaches in, grabs a bottle of the first thing he finds, and disappears down the hall.

It's a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Red.

_Good enough_ , Erlich thinks as he shuts the door behind him. Kicking off his pants, he unscrews the cap and takes a long, deep swallow, the smooth, golden burn warming him up immediately, tingling through his insides, blotting out the sick, angry feeling that dares to overtake him.

Determined not to think for the rest of the night—he's done enough of that today already—he sits on the edge of his bed, grabs a half-smoked blunt from his side-table and lights it, chasing the scotch with a long, slow drag.

  
  



End file.
